


So Many Definitions of Lost (1/1)

by whichclothes



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-09
Updated: 2011-08-09
Packaged: 2017-10-22 11:02:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/237372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whichclothes/pseuds/whichclothes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>  Post-series, Angel finds Spike mourning a loss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So Many Definitions of Lost (1/1)

**Author's Note:**

> Uses the [](http://angst-bingo.livejournal.com/profile)[**angst_bingo**](http://angst-bingo.livejournal.com/)  prompt "moments lost." Grateful thanks to my beta, [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/) . Feedback is cherished!

_**So Many Definitions of Lost (1/1)**_  
 **Title** : So Many Definitions of Lost  
 **Pairing:** Spike/Angel  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Disclaimer** : I'm not Joss  
 **Summary:**   Post-series, Angel finds Spike mourning a loss.  
 **Author's Notes:** Uses the [](http://angst-bingo.livejournal.com/profile)[**angst_bingo**](http://angst-bingo.livejournal.com/)   prompt "moments lost." Grateful thanks to my beta, [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/)  . Feedback is cherished!

 **  
SO MANY DEFINITIONS OF LOST   
**

Spike wasn’t at the meeting. That wasn’t unusual; he often skipped them, claiming they were more boring than anything he’d endured in his months at Wolfram & Hart. He tended to show up just before Angel and the rest of the crew were getting ready to leave the Hyperion. Spike would have an axe in his hands and a cigarette between his lips, and he’d smell of cheap whiskey and cheap sex. “So,” he’d say with a grin, “what are we killing tonight?”

But this night when Angel stood near the door, and when Beate and Lilka and Xander and Adit—the Slayers and Watchers currently on loan—fidgeted and double-checked their stakes, Spike failed to appear. Angel hesitated a few extra moments, pretending that he was checking his text messages. But no broken-down pair of Docs came tromping down the stairs. No loud English voice called Angel names or bickered with Xander or flirted with the Slayers. When the others shot Angel impatient looks, he shrugged and led the way into the night.

They fought Bracique demons that night. Squirmy things with screechy shrieks and too many limbs. There were a lot of them. Xander got a nasty knock on the head, Beate got stabbed in the thigh, and they were all pretty battered and bruised by the time they were finished, but the Braciques were dead. Another victory. Not that most of the world would notice.

Back at the hotel, Lilka hauled Xander to their makeshift infirmary. The girl had been mooning over him since they’d arrived, but so far Xander had resisted her charms. Too young for him, he claimed, but Angel suspected the truth was that the man couldn’t stand getting close again to someone he might very well lose. 

Beate insisted she could doctor herself. She limped up to her room, no doubt to Skype her girlfriend who remained in Germany. Adit scurried away as well, eager to write the evening’s exploits in his diaries. 

That left Angel, who felt every one of his years as he trudged up to his suite. Christ, he was born nearly 300 years ago. Three centuries—unimaginable! His rooms were as neat as always. He peeled off his clothing, reluctantly decided that it was not salvageable, and stuffed it into the trash bin under the sink of his kitchenette. Then he poured a couple pints of pigs’ blood into a plastic pitcher and, still nude, chugged the liquid cold. It tasted terrible. As he wandered to the bathroom, he rubbed his lips with the back of his hand, trying not to remember how wonderful human blood was when taken straight from the vein, hot and sweet and rich with life.

He showered, thoroughly but a little carefully—the water stung his scratches and scrapes—until the grime and reek of battle had disappeared down the drain. All that was left was the scent of the coconut shampoo and vanilla soap that Spike liked to tease him about. He didn’t care about the teasing; the products made his hair and skin really soft. Not that most of the world would notice.

After he’d dried off, Angel pulled on a pair of flannel lounging pants and a worn white t-shirt: clothing that wouldn’t irritate his wounds too much. He ran a comb through his hair but decided not to style it. Instead, he found the book he’d been reading that afternoon—an English translation of Sun Tzu’s _The Art of War_ —and collapsed onto the bed, not bothering to pull back the blankets. He was on the sixth chapter, “Weak Points and Strong,” but he couldn’t concentrate. The letters kept going fuzzy, the words were meaningless.

He threw the book down with a heavy sigh and got up to search for his slippers.

Spike’s room was smaller than Angel’s. Spike could have had a suite as well—Xander had offered to knock down a couple of walls and do some remodeling. But Spike said he didn’t need much space, and he’d chosen a room one floor up from Angel’s and in a corner of the building. Angel had been there only once or twice since they had moved in, although sometimes when he happened to pass nearby he’d hear music thumping, all beat and no melody. Now the hallway was silent. Angel paused, took a deep breath, and knocked on the door.

“Sod off,” came the muffled voice from inside.

Angel scowled and turned to go. But then he stopped and knocked again.

“I said bugger off!”

Angel knocked a third time, and when there was no answer he tried the knob. It turned easily.

The room was dark and it smelled of Spike: leather, tobacco, booze, and sex. Spike himself sat in the sole chair. He was naked. His hands lay palm-up on his slightly spread thighs, his shoulders hunched, his eyes closed, and his hair in wild snarls as if he’d been running his fingers through it. 

He didn’t respond to Angel’s presence at all, at least not until Angel cleared his throat. Then Spike slowly opened his eyes and raised his head. He gave Angel a long look. “Like what you’ve done to your face,” he finally announced.

Angel’s hand automatically flew up to touch his split lip, his bruised and swollen right eye. Then he let his hand drop. He couldn’t stop staring at Spike. He’d forgotten how beautiful the younger vampire’s body was, sleek muscles and white skin and only a faint dusting of light hair. “I—” Angel began and then cleared his throat. “You weren’t there tonight.”

Both Spike's face and voice were expressionless. “I’m sure you and your band of merry men bravely slew the nasties nonetheless.” 

“Well, yeah. But we could’ve used some help. Xander—”

“Got himself bashed on the head again, I expect.”

“Yeah.”

“ ’T’s a wonder the boy’s any brains left at all. And I’ll wager the bird with the ridiculous fingernails is tending to him.”

“Her name is Lilka, Spike. Which you know perfectly well.”

Spike listlessly waved one hand. “Doesn’t matter. Soon enough she’ll get killed or she’ll go scampering back to wherever she came from and they’ll send another one. Endless supply, yeah?”

“Spike, what the hell’s wrong with you?”

That produced a bark of laughter. “Wrong? Nothing at all. ’M right as rain. I’ll bloody live forever, ’til all that’s left is me and the cockroaches.”

Angel looked around for empty Jack Daniels bottles, but there weren’t any; and Spike wasn’t slurring like he did when he was drunk. He just looked … tired, Angel thought. And sad.

After a brief hesitation, Angel walked across the room and sat on the bed. The sheets and blankets were in a knot at one corner of the mattress and one of the pillows was on the floor. He would have suspected a night of debauchery was to blame, but there was no other scent there but Spike’s. Nightmares, maybe. Angel understood—he was plagued by them himself.

“What’s wrong?” he asked again, this time more softly.

Spike’s eyes were red-rimmed and slightly puffy; Angel could see it now that he was closer. But Spike’s voice was steady when he spoke. “What do you want, Liam?”

“I— Nothing. You weren’t there and—”

“So dock my pay. Or sack me altogether.” Spike turned his head, staring at the greenish curtains that covered one window.

The pain on his face was suddenly too raw—more intimate by far than his nudity—and Angel had to look away. He focused his eyes on the carpet, threadbare and stained. Maybe if Spike wouldn’t let Xander do major renovations, he’d at least allow a little decorating. The mattress was kind of lumpy, too. That couldn’t be comfortable.

For a long time neither of them said anything. The silence was thick and heavy.

“I can’t remember her birthday,” Spike finally whispered.

“Whose?”

“My mum’s. It was … sometime in the spring, I remember that. I used to take her out to tea on her birthday and then we’d stroll through the park and look to see whether the tulips were blooming yet. She loved tulips, my mum did. I remember that. _But I can’t recall the bloody date!_ ” He said the last few words in a shout and his body tensed, but he didn’t move off the chair.

“We could … we could look it up. There must be records. We could call Giles in London and—”

“Doesn’t matter. Anyone who cared about her birthday’s been dead over a century.”

“I’m sorry,” Angel said, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“ ’T’s not just that, is it? Can’t remember my cousins’ names. Had loads of them, all snotty-nosed and whingeing. Can’t remember my tutor’s name either, from when I was at university. He was a pompous prat, I know that, but don’t know his name. Don’t recall the name of the little place we always stayed when we went on holiday. Don’t know what my favorite foods were, or which books I liked to read. Or the last time I took a stroll in the sunshine—where was that?” Spike slumped forward and buried his face in his hands. 

“Are those things really important?”

Spike’s head snapped up. “They were! They were once and now … now they’re gone. What’s next?”

Angel just shook his head and Spike made a small noise, a half-strangled sob. Another long silence followed, punctuated by Spike’s occasional sniffs. When he spoke again, it was very quietly. “Everything that I was as a man, it’s all slipping away, fading like old photos. I wasn’t much of a man, I’ll admit that. Never amounted to much. But … it was _me_. How much longer until it’s all gone, until all that’s left is the sodding demon? Memories of killing, of darkness, of loss. And I expect I’ll end up bald and bat-eared as well.”

“I think you’ve got a while before you have to worry about that, Spike. I’ve got a century and a half on you and still have all my hair.” He ran his hand over his scalp as if to demonstrate.

“ ’T’s not the hair, wanker. It’s the humanity. The … the self.”

Angel stood and walked the few steps to the chair. He knelt beside it and looked earnestly into Spike’s face. “You’re the most human demon I’ve ever met. You have been from the night you rose, all strutting and smirking, and you still are.” He chuckled. “And I bet your favorite books were Byron.”

Spike glared at him for a moment and then his face crumpled. He hid it in his hands again. “I couldn’t bear it if … if I lost myself completely.”

 _  
Lost   
_   
. The word made a series of rapid connections in Angel's mind: lost memories, lost causes, lost souls. The missing, the hopeless, the damned—both he and Spike knew too much about each of those. Although he knew it would be a bit awkward, Angel patted Spike’s shoulder. The bare skin was very smooth and cool beneath his palm. 

Spike sniffed again. “Nancy,” he muttered into his hands, and Angel wasn’t sure which of them he meant.

Angel took his hand away but didn’t rise from his knees. “Look. It … it happens. Years accumulate. There’s only so much storage space in here.” He tapped his forehead. “Like when you run out of … of those gig things. On a computer.”

“Gigabytes,” Spike said, his voice slightly muffled.

“Right. Too many gigabytes used and something has to be erased. Hell, we’d go nuts otherwise, all that trivia rolling around in our skulls. We’d have a hell of a time adjusting to changing times.”

Spike was still for a moment and then lifted his head to look at him. “You’ve … you’ve lost things as well?”

“Of course.” Angel sighed and sat back on his heels. “When I was … before the soul, I didn’t care. I didn’t want much to do with my human self anyway. Good riddance. But later… Maybe some of those memories would have been a comfort when I was alone.”

“Eating rats.”

“Yeah. Eating rats.” Another chuckle escaped. “Wish I could forget that part, actually. Hell, there’s entire decades I’d forget if I could. So here’s the thing. Maybe I can’t remember some of that little stuff, like who taught me to ride a horse, or where I was when I had my first kiss. But I’m still me, right? And you’re still you. That’s not gonna change.”

Spike perked up just a bit. “You certain?”

“I don’t care whose birthday you forget. You’re still gonna be stubborn and snarky and emotional—”

“ ’M not emotional!” Spike protested.

“—and argumentative and brave and stupid and—”

“Wait. Go back to that last bit.”

With great difficulty, Angel suppressed a grin. “Stupid.”

“Oi!” Spike punched him in the bicep.

“Brave, William. You’re brave. And … perceptive. And loyal. And you write good poems.”

Spike raised an eyebrow at him. 

Angel looked at Spike, still naked and still only a few inches away. So beautiful, and such a contradiction. Strong and vulnerable. Cocky and insecure. An enemy and an ally. A demon and a man. Angel smiled. “You haven’t lost _all_ your early memories, have you?”

With a slight twitch of his lips, Spike tilted his head. “Wondering about any in particular, are we?”

“Maybe. A certain weekend in Edinburgh. The girls were off somewhere—”

“Hunting in the Highlands. Dru fancied there were wolves there and Darla went along for a lark.”

Angel inched forward on his knees until he was up against the chair, his face very close to Spike’s. “So you do remember, lad,” he said. 

Spike did that thing with his tongue. The sorrow hadn’t completely dropped away from him, but now it was only a shadow, a few clouds in the blue sky of his eyes. “I do, Liam. But … perhaps a few reminders would be in order.”

Angel smiled. And then he _oofed_ as Spike launched himself out of the chair, knocking Angel backwards onto that rug that needed replacing. Spike straddled him, leaning down to lick at Angel’s neck.

Angel groaned. “I don’t remember it going quite like this. I remember that I was the one on top.”

Spike’s answering grin was wide and lascivious. “Then perhaps it’s time to make some new memories, love.”

 _  
~~~fin~~~   
_

  



End file.
